Some people daydream about tropical islands, or tall ships, or sex with their classmates. I spend that time confronting the grim reality of my own imminent demise.
Amos was six-foot-five and weighed 300 pounds. The vacant, insincere smile plastered to his lips made it seem he knew embarrassing information about you.
Amidst the titles we didn’t understand—about menopause, bi-polarity, What Color is Your Parachute—one book stood out, like a billboard: The Joy of Sex.
On July 21, 1923, my maternal grandfather was born in a small fishing village in the Bay of Fundy. White Head, so named because of the array of white quartz at the head of the island…
The display flashed “Great workout!” and a sense of dread dug its claws deep in my belly. I stepped off the treadmill feeling like I was still moving, my heart doing that flutter thing again.
One day, as we were perusing the want-ads in the Village Voice, my sister remarked that in spite of four college degrees between us, neither was qualified to work a New York City car wash.